The Dangerous Ladies Affair

by Marcia Muller

  When the Captain Weber was well clear of the wharves and the other packets, her speed increased steadily. As she passed near Fort Alcatraz, where a garrison of soldiers had stood ready to repel attacks by Rebel privateers during the Civil War (none such had taken place), Quincannon crossed through the passage to the starboard side. Cautiously he approached the window of Pauline Dupree’s stateroom. It was shuttered, but thin strips of lamplight leaked palely through the downturned slats.

  Accompanied by the throb of foghorns, the steamer progressed north into San Pablo Bay. From that point their course, and that of the other boats, would be east into the narrow Carquinez Strait and southeast past Cripp’s Island to the confluence of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers; there they would swing south and proceed along a circuitous route among the myriad delta islands to their final destinations.

  The icy evening wind blowing across the bay eventually drove him into the Social Hall. This was where coffee, tea, and other non-alcoholic beverages could be purchased, gentlemen passengers smoked pre- and post-prandial cigars and engaged in friendly games of poker, chess, and checkers, and ladies and couples played bridge or whist. There was even entertainment of a sort, which tonight consisted of a gaudily outfitted gent strumming industriously on a banjo. Quincannon warmed himself with two cups of hot clam juice. After the second cup, he went out on deck and again reconnoitered her stateroom windows. The faint light glow through the slats attested to the fact that the actress was still closeted inside. And likely intended to remain there.

  He’d had faint hopes, now gone, that she would crave company in the Social Hall and be away long enough for him to surreptitiously pick the lock on her stateroom door and conduct a quick search. It was unlikely that she would have risked carrying ten thousand dollars in cash on a crowded riverboat; she was brazen, but no fool. Chances were she had taken steps to safeguard it. Sent the cash, carefully packed, on ahead of her by railroad express to New York, if that was in fact her final destination. Or opened an account at a San Francisco bank other than the Woolworth National and arranged to have the funds transferred to an eastern bank. But if he’d been able to gain access he might have discovered Titus Wrixton’s letters, if Dupree had chosen to keep them, or other telltale evidence among her possessions.

  Quincannon climbed to the weather deck and entered the purser’s cubicle. “What time do we reach Kennett’s Crossing?” he asked.

  “Shortly before midnight, sir.”

  “Is a stop scheduled there tonight?”

  The thin, bewhiskered purser consulted his passenger manifest. “Yes,” he said, “a request has been made.” That was all he’d say, but Quincannon thought it was enough to confirm his suspicions.

  In the lamplit deckhouse tunnel, Negro and Chinese waiters were busily setting up long, linen-covered tables. Dinner was served here, as on all the river packets, since none had space for separate dining rooms. Quincannon had no intention of eating with the other passengers, lest Pauline Dupree put in an appearance while he was doing so. But neither did he intend to skip the meal; he’d had no lunch and already his innards were complaining. He tipped the dining steward a silver dollar for the privilege of having his meal—a dozen raw oysters on the half shell, venison stew, fresh vegetables—delivered to his stateroom.

  The food was delivered shortly after the mealtime hubbub began. He ate slowly, then sat planning strategy through a pipeful of Navy Cut. Given the late hour of their arrival at Kennett’s Crossing, and if Dupree was in fact bound for Noah Rideout’s Schyler Island farm, it seemed probable that she would be met at the landing by Rideout or one of his minions. There was an inn there, but it was as primitive as the rest of the little backwater hamlet—not the sort of place a woman like her would find comfortable even for part of a night if it could be avoided.

  What he would do then, Quincannon thought, was follow her off the Captain Weber at a distance, taking care to avoid being seen, and put up at Kennett’s Inn himself. In the morning he would get directions to Rideout’s property, rent a horse, and ride there. The element of surprise and whatever cunning was necessary should have the desired results. Assuming, of course, that Noah Rideout was not the same sort of obdurate, lovesick ignoramus as his Titus Wrixton. And judging by the landowner’s reputation, he was susceptible to but not blinded by feminine charms.

  Once the dining period ended, silence, broken only by the rhythmic chunking of the stern buckets, descended on the packet. Quincannon read for a while in the book he’d brought along, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s splendid May Day and Other Poems, then dozed until his trained mind brought him alert at eleven. Twenty-five minutes later by his stem-winder, he donned chesterfield, scarf, and cap and then, carrying his valise, went out to the forward deckhouse observation area.

  He stood in the shadows along the rail, loaded and fired his pipe. The packet was on her winding course among the San Joaquin Delta islands now, the weather here mostly clear except for patches of ground mist, the wind light and not as cold.

  His wait lasted some fifteen minutes. During that time he expected Pauline Dupree to emerge from the deckhouse with her carpetbag in hand, but when they traversed a bight in the river and Kennett’s Crossing’s lantern-lit landing appeared ahead, she had yet to put in an appearance. Nor did she emerge as the Captain Weber slowed and the pilot began whistling their arrival. Or when the packet nosed up to the rickety dock. Or when deckhands swiftly lowered the gangplank.

  No one disembarked.

  But someone boarded—a lone male. After which the gangplank was quickly raised and the Captain Weber swung out again into the channel.

  Nonplussed, Quincannon watched the new passenger climb the stairs to the deckhouse, a small possibles bag looped over his shoulder. There was enough lantern light and pale moonlight to make out the features of a man no older than thirty-five dressed in a long buffalo-skin coat. The man passed him without a glance, went into the deckhouse.

  On impulse Quincannon followed, peering around the corner in time to see the newcomer knock on the door of Pauline Dupree’s stateroom. It opened immediately and the man disappeared inside.

  Hell, damn, and blast!

  Who was he? Not Noah Rideout, who was twenty years older and sufficiently wealthy to encase himself in clothing of a much better quality. Another of Pauline Dupree’s paramours or pawns? If so, it seemed probable that he had some connection with her plans and that those plans concerned Rideout; the late-night boarding at Kennett’s Crossing augered against any other explanation.

  Grumbling and glowering, Quincannon returned to the observation area to fetch his valise. He took it into his stateroom, then almost but not quite closed the door, leaving a crack through which he could look out into the tunnel. He stood watch there for the better part of half an hour. Buffalo Coat had evidently been invited to spend the rest of the night with the promiscuous, duplicitous Miss Dupree.

  It now appeared that she intended to travel all the way to Stockton. To meet Noah Rideout there or for some other purpose? And just who the devil was the fellow who’d boarded at Kennett’s Crossing?

  16

  SABINA

  Her Friday began with a telephone call from Cornelius Sutton, the head of Sutton Securities Incorporated and the man who had hired John to investigate the suspected embezzlement by Robert Featherstone, the financial management firm’s chief accountant. The crotchety old gentleman (John’s description) was indeed crotchety this morning; he had been promised a report by close of business yesterday and had not received it. He became even more irate when Sabina informed him that John was not in the office and she had no idea where he was or when he would make himself available. The poor connection, another problem the Telephone Exchange was plagued with lately, saved her from having to listen and respond to a series of additional grumbles. She said, or rather shouted, that Mr. Quincannon would be in touch as soon as possible and then broke the connection.

  John had been to the office sometime yesterday, evidently with the
intention of preparing his report on Featherstone for delivery to Mr. Sutton. Sabina discovered this by checking his desk. The ink-stained blotter had been empty when she left for the bank and Voting Rights for Women; the Featherstone file now sat in the middle of it. She opened it and read through the contents. The evidence it contained, as his note had indicated, seemed mostly complete, but whether or not it was damning enough to satisfy their client she couldn’t be certain.

  Why hadn’t John delivered it? Or at least contacted Mr. Sutton? It wasn’t like him to shirk his duties, especially when a substantial compensation was to be had. Something must have happened to deter him. The thought that it might be something perilous was disturbing and she quickly banished it.

  She debated delivering the file to Mr. Sutton herself. No, not unless it was absolutely necessary. All she knew of his investigation was what was in the file, John having considered it routine and not worth discussing in detail. If it wasn’t complete enough to satisfy the crotchety old gentleman, there was little she could do to appease him. Better to wait and hope that John would finally put in an appearance this morning and ease her mind on all counts.

  But he didn’t.

  Eleven o’clock came and went. Nothing disturbed the empty silence in the office except for the arrival of the day’s mail, which consisted of circulars and the latest issue of the Police Gazette. Where was he, for heaven’s sake?

  Eleven-forty-five. On most Fridays, she lunched with Callie at one of the better downtown restaurants; they had an appointment to meet today at the Sun Dial. Callie would be on her way there now, so it was too late to call it off. And if Sabina didn’t show up, Callie, who constantly worried about her cousin’s involvement in what she considered a hazardous profession, would think the worst. In which case there was no telling what she might do.

  Reluctantly, Sabina kept the date. Callie was her usual effusive self, chatting on about all sorts of things, including Sabina’s budding romance with John, for Callie would have liked nothing better than to see her married again. Sabina had become adept at sidetracking this well-meaning prying and did so again today. But the rambling comments and questions, and Callie’s fondness for sweets, made the lunch a lengthy chore. It was two o’clock before Sabina could extricate herself and shortly past two-thirty before she arrived back at the agency.

  The door was still locked, but John had been there in her absence. He hadn’t stayed long, however, and he hadn’t taken the Featherstone file with him when he left. Instead he’d transferred it from his desk to hers and placed a note in his crabbed hand on top of it.

  The note irritated and puzzled her. On the trail of P. Dupree. So that was what had been occupying John’s time since Tuesday, just as she’d suspected. But what did “on the trail” mean, exactly? And why was he taking a night boat to the San Joaquin Delta, of all places? If the actress had suddenly decided to leave San Francisco with her ill-gotten gains in order to pursue her New York stage ambitions, the logical route would have been by steamer to Sacramento and thence a transcontinental train. There must be some reason she was bound for the delta, assuming that was why John was bound there. May be away for several days. If New York was the woman’s ultimate destination, did he intend to follow her part of or all the way there? In an obsessive frame of mind, he was capable of it. He would go to any ends to bring a felon to justice, collect a debt, and redeem his wounded pride.

  Then there was the Featherstone file. No time to deliver report to client as promised. Regret task is now yours. Well, that was typical of him. Rush off with hardly any explanation on what might well turn out to be a wild-goose chase, leaving her to deal with his unfinished business.

  Will make it up to you upon return. Your Devoted Servant. As though that were enough to excuse his cheekiness and mollify her. Lord, he could be exasperating at times!

  Yet, despite all of this, she couldn’t help worrying about his welfare. And should he be gone any appreciable length of time, she knew she would miss him. There had been times during their association when his frequent absences and escapades troubled her little or not at all. Now … well, now they did. It had been only three days since she’d last seen him, yet already it seemed much longer than that.

  “Are you or aren’t you in love with John?” Callie had asked her at lunch. She had evaded the question by admitting that she was fond of him but that the only man she had ever loved was Stephen. Which was true and always would be. What she felt for John was not at all the same thing. And yet …

  Oh, damn! Stop maundering. There’s work to be done, this file to be delivered.

  She telephoned Sutton Securities Incorporated. Yes, Mr. Sutton was still there; she spoke to him briefly, saying that her partner had been unexpectedly called out of town but that he had completed his report before leaving and she would bring it to him immediately. This satisfied him, though he grumbled again about the delay. She would have to make an effort to placate him further when she arrived.

  But she was delayed in leaving the office and making the delivery. For she was just putting on her coat and hat when the door popped open and Fenton Egan came striding in.

  Sabina’s first thought was that the importer had come to pursue his lecherous interest in her. Egan had other business on his mind, however; one long look at him told her that. His jaw was set in tight lines, the gray eyes sparking instead of caressing. One of his green-and-brown panatelas, unlit, protruded from a corner of his mouth, and there was a dusting of gray ash on his imperial from one previously smoked.

  “I’ve come about my wife,” he said in a flat voice.

  “What about your wife, Mr. Egan?”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “You know the answer to that. Tuesday afternoon at your home.”

  “You didn’t see her again later that day?”

  “I would have said so if I had. Why are you asking?”

  He ignored the question. “The maid told me you came calling again on Wednesday.”

  “I did, and was told that your wife was unavailable.”

  “Why the second visit? What did you want with her?”

  “You know the answer to that, too.”

  “I told you in no uncertain terms that neither she nor I was behind the alleged attack on Amity Wellman—”

  “Not alleged, actual,” Sabina said. “I was there at the time. And no, I don’t necessarily suspect her. Or you. I am merely trying to find out who is responsible.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Prudence. And it certainly wasn’t me. Your interference in our lives amounts to harassment.”

  An improper claim, but there was nothing to be gained in arguing the point with him. “Exactly why are you here asking about your wife, Mr. Egan?”

  “She’s gone missing, that’s why.”

  “Missing? Since when?”

  “She left home late Tuesday afternoon, not long after your impudent conversation with her. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  “Nor has anyone else has, I take it.”

  “Not the maid. Not any of her acquaintances.”

  “She has no close friend she might have confided in?”

  “No.”

  “Then she certainly wouldn’t have confided in me,” Sabina said. “I have no idea where she is or why she went away.”

  “So you say.”

  “I am not in the habit of lying, sir.”

  “Well, you must have said or done something on Tuesday that drove her away. There is no other earthly reason for her to have disappeared so suddenly.”

  “I neither said nor did anything to provoke her.”

  “So you say,” Egan repeated, his mustache bristling.

  “Has your wife ever left home unexpectedly before?”

  “Never. She’s devoted to me.”

  As if her disappearance were a personal affront. “Have you reported her missing to the police?”

  “Certainly not. I have no intention of taking such a drastic step unless absolutely ne
cessary.”

  “Drastic?”

  “It would only cast aspersions on the good name of Egan.”

  Sabina’s dislike of the man, tempered by the news he’d brought, had returned in full. He wasn’t so much concerned about his wife’s well-being as he was about the possibility of scandal, the innuendo that his wife had abandoned him, and the effect it would have on his image and his business standing. Prudence Egan might be devoted to him, though that was questionable, but the only person Fenton Egan was devoted to was himself.

  “You’ll get nowhere making unfounded accusations against my methods or my integrity, Mr. Egan,” Sabina said crisply. “There is nothing I can tell you or do for you.”

  He was silent for a few seconds, masticating his cigar. Some of the angry light dimmed in the gray eyes, giving them the look of cold ashes. “All right. Perhaps I was mistaken in my presumption. But goddamn it, woman, I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “I don’t appreciate being cursed at. Or being addressed pejoratively as ‘woman.’”

  “That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

  “Among other things, all of them commanding of respect.”

  The corner of his mouth containing the panatela lifted in a half-formed sneer.

  “I’m sorry your wife has vanished,” Sabina said with more restraint than she felt, “but she must have had a good reason for leaving and three days is not a long time. She may have returned home already, for all you know. If she is still missing tomorrow, I suggest you set aside your concerns about ‘the good name of Egan’ and consult with the authorities. Now I’ll thank you to leave, sir. Immediately.”